


And I just don't Care what the Price Is

by Das_Silberschlussel



Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, Blood, Drug Abuse, Gaslighting, Loss of Memory, Mental Breakdown, Mental Health Issues, Overdose, Sudden violence, Suicidal Ideation, There is some implied queer platonic zoscar, blood on the walls, but it doesn't fix everything, but it's not the focus of the fic, but warnings JIC, hard drug use, its not super graphic, no beta we die like bertie, pulled from the brink of death, snippets of an AU, the focus is the pain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-10 16:36:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 1,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28300260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Das_Silberschlussel/pseuds/Das_Silberschlussel
Summary: Snippets of an AU where Oscar Wilde is grabbed by the Cult of Hades loosely inspired by the song VICES by Mothica.
Relationships: Zolf Smith & Oscar Wilde
Comments: 31
Kudos: 10
Collections: When In Rome Secret Santa 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ineffablenerd](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ineffablenerd/gifts).



It hadn't started with extreme lack of sleep, It had actually started with helping the London Rangers escape the burning of Paris. But then everything had started to rush through him, everything had _changed_. At first, it had been just he heightening of the thoughts that normally plagued him through the night.

But then, any time he wasn't in full control of his situation everything seemed to fall apart, first it was the smallest cracks in the façade that he maintained for business reasons, but soon it spread beyond that to even the rare bits of his personal life.

He must have angered someone so far up the chain that he was getting targeted spell work, something that was so insidious that it slowly carved at the mental walls that he had built for years. Even so, he could feel the twisting vines of the working slip through his mind and dig thorns into his psyche – pulling small pieces of himself away.

He found himself coming to in locations he had never decided to go. Others in the meritocratic offices started leaving reports he couldn't remember asking for, but at least then he was able to sleep.

When he woke up in a small apartment in Prague the walls were covered in letters drawn in blood.

'You couldn't just stay away,' they read in his own handwriting, 'fine, enjoy your last restful night.'

He immediately searched for the knife he normally kept hidden for emergencies, but in the process noticed the strip of cloth that had obviously once been his ascot binding his arm and the color of his own blood that was seeping through the silk.

The knife was gone, it wasn't in the small room, instead there had been a purse with a small handful of items and substances he hadn't expected. Apparently whoever had left him here had given him something 'for when it becomes too much' according to the note.

The syringe already called to him, and the drug that the purse contained. It wasn't so much that his mouth watered but that his whole body seemed to long for it.

It was a day before he finally succumbed to the temptation, and another two before meritocratic agents found him in that small room.


	2. Chapter 2

Prague had been its own nightmare of a situation, the city on the ground had its meritocratic office, but they started looking to Wilde for some actual help, especially since technically the meritocrat was deceased. Responsibilities began to pile onto Wilde's shoulders and constantly the whispers in the back of his mind came crawling to the foreground as his hands would twist the skin that housed the track marks he had been trying so hard to not add to.

 _You're weak_.

The whispers always started that way, and it was always words he could push away and ignore as he wrote out the next report.

 _Who are you to lead, you can't even keep yourself sane_.

As the words swirled and he tried to concentrate, letting the barriers that kept his mind intact keep them out as he pushed on to help rebuild the meritocratic offices and base of operation in Prague. It wasn't his original job description, but he had sworn an oath, and he would do it to the best of his ability.

_You're useless, and you know it._

Another cup of coffee, another line of cocaine to help push himself forward into the work, to just get it done.

Wilde wiped the blood away from his nose as he scanned over the first few lines on the page.

**USELESS USELESS USELESS USELESS**

The words shouted at him from the page, their letters scratched over with the pen even after it had needed re-inking. And his nose wouldn't stop bleeding.

He ran his fingers through his hair, trying to remember if he had actually done this before throwing the sheets to the floor and resting his head on the desk, his handkerchief crumpled into a ball at his nose.

_You can't even do your job correctly, you should let it go._

He struggled as he let the drugs settle into him, something to change his mindset and to help him keep going. He was starting to feel like an automaton, just stumbling through his life, barely managing to keep anything together.


	3. Chapter 3

Wilde let out a breath before shakily pushing his fingers through his unwashed hair before drawing them down to push into his eyes, anything to relieve just the tiniest bit of pain. Everything was going to Hades, and he had already been pushing himself beyond his limit. He looked at himself in the mirror over the counter, his hollow eyes and the gaunt look to his face betrayed exactly how long he had been going without sleep.

He looked away, he couldn't bare to look at himself, and in a sharp intake of breath he let the magic settle around him, taking away the hollowness and the haunted looks. But he looked again, and knew it was a lie.

The words still ran through the back of his head, twisting words that condemned every action he took to help.

_Worthless, Worthless, Useless._

The chants running through his head didn't even have the decency to use some other person's voice to condemn him; instead he had to listen to his own voice telling him that he was _worthless, worthless, useless, a waste of space, better off dead._

He looked to the small bag he had nearby, it was the only thing that kept the voices in his head silent, the only way he could sleep.

Wilde pulled open the bag, hearing the words again echoing in his head and the room as if he was saying them aloud. And perhaps he was, it wouldn't surprise him at this point. His hands shook as he tied the tourniquet around his upper arm, using his teeth to help with the knot and to ensure it was the right tension.

Then came the needle, a flick to ensure no air would get into his veins.

_What would it matter if it did though?_

The voices asked, almost urging him to not take the safe procedure with this already risky move. He bit his tongue to keep his concentration on something besides the words resounding around him -- a temporary solution as he worked on a slightly more long term one.

Then the needle found his vein, and he released the drug into his system.

The silence hit him first, even before the heat and the loosening of his muscles. With a sigh he fell into a settee, blessed quiet and finally sleep.


	4. Chapter 4

After Damascus and his imprisonment by the Cult of Artemis, Wilde learned to live with the shorter hair, the lack of magic and the perpetual weight of ankle cuffs. And although he no longer heard the external whispers breaking down his mental walls, the voices he had heard for years now had their own stronghold in his head.

Now he was entirely sure that the voices he heard were his own, and if only he wasn't so damn truthful all the time.

He had found Zolf, who was dealing with his own problems, learning to walk again, and Carter and Barnes were new additions to what he had once considered the B team, but now was the only team he was truly in charge of.

He had broken his oath to Guivres, he had taken his leave of the meritocratic office and he was chasing some whisper of a rumor all while slowly falling apart and letting his addiction control him. He could barely rely on himself, let alone the others, but he still pushed himself into his normal role as a spy, regardless of the danger it put him in.

_They would all be so much happier if you died._

The voice that was his own whispered as he entered the newest meet up. The dark bags under his eyes barely a disguise this time, as he passed over money for drugs that he needed to feel normal for just another day. He nodded at the dealer and moved into the alley to check everything was alright.

He choked when the dagger plunged into his stomach with bright pain that shocked through is body, another slash went for his face and seconds later he was on the ground, his eyes gone glassy and his drugs escaping through the rain in the hands of the thugs that had taken them for their own.

_Good._

_I deserve this._

Wilde surrendered to the exhaustion he had been fighting for so long. He let his will slip from his fingers and into the blood spreading around his body.


	5. Chapter 5

“--back.”

Wilde was unconscious and could barely hear through the bright ringing of a voice and pressure on his stomach; though his lack of consciousness was starting to fade.

“Please” Zolf shouted at the sky, and the world around him, as he held pressure on Wilde's stomach, keeping the bits of him in as he forced every bit of magic he could manage to contain or imagine himself containing into the Bard that was all but dead. “I need him.”

Wilde see the scene, from a third person perspective, he saw the shackles that had been torn recklessly from his ankles and he could see the slow healing of the scar that would twist his smile.

And he saw Zolf – glowing bright with power channeling healing energies from beyond mortal ken into his body.

“No, Zolf, let me go.” he whispered through his spirit, “I don't deserve this, let me rest.”

Wilde found himself kneeling on the other side of his own body, looking at Zolf. Watching the tears fall from the Dwarf cleric's eyes as his hair began to, strand by strand, turn white. Wilde reached out to touch Zolf's cheek.

“Why do you care so much about me, Zolf, I'm horrible. You should have kept hating me, don't save me; I'm not worth it.” Wilde could feel his own tears starting to well in his eyes as he stood to walk away, he was so tired and he didn't want to be forced back into that existence of dependency.

“I need you, Wilde, I need you.” he could hear the soft voice through Zolf's hurried chanting of magical words.

“What?” Wilde whispered in the empty space between his spiritual self and the physical body that he had once been.

“I'll pay it, whatever the cost.” Zolf finally shouted to the sky as a pressure began to build suddenly and sharply before slamming into Wilde's body through the conduit of Zolf. The conduit immediately drained his power, and for a moment Wilde saw the outstretched hand of a figure in gold reaching out to him to beckon him back to his body.


End file.
